by Gary Mulgrew
‘No, ma’am,’ I replied gently. ‘I waived every and all rights to an appeal now or at any time in the future. That was the specific condition the DoJ insisted on before they agreed to expedite my transfer home. I will always be guilty, ma’am.’
‘And the judge allowed this?’ she asked, her interest now seemingly piqued.
‘Delighted to,’ I responded, unable to entirely hide my disdain.
Miss Matthews read on. After a while longer, and by now perilously close to the ten-minute mark, she started to re-stack the papers back neatly into the file. As I waited for her to speak she stood the file up and carefully straightened it before laying it back down neatly on the table.
‘The thing is, Mr Mulgrew,’ she began, much more confident now. ‘This agreement, while I accept it is real and it is in here as you say, it is also between you and the Department of Justice. I don’t see what it has to do with me and the Big Spring Correctional Facility.’ She tailed off, catching my stare.
I felt it all slipping away, my chance, my deal, my agreement, my hope. Panic started to rip through me, but I stopped it, pushed it back down and held my nerve. I leaned forward slowly and placed my hands on the file, near hers. I knew I was risking everything, but I needed her help and I needed it now.
‘Miss Matthews?’ I began gently. I paused and waited for her to look up at me and to speak.
‘Yes . . .?’ she responded hesitantly, but at least she was still with me.
‘My agreement is with the United States Government, with the United States of America; a wonderful and honest country. They chose to bring me here, and they can choose to send me back.’ She was nodding slightly now, and I took some comfort from this as I continued very clearly and precisely. ‘You are an employee of the United States Government, am I correct?’ She nodded her agreement. ‘So you are required to honour that agreement I made with your employer.’
I finished, looking at her intently and willing her to agree. She sat back for a moment or two, then looked from me to the file. After a moment or two she reached, hesitated then reached again to her bottom drawer, pulled out the transfer form and began writing on it.
‘You have to return this to me by next week, Mulgrew,’ she said as she stamped it; my ten minutes nearly over and a party beginning in my heart. I thanked her as she momentarily held the form back and gave me an ominous warning.
‘The transfer can take a year or two to come through, although as you point out, in your case Washington might expedite it. But if you have any disciplinary issues while you are in Big Spring or are involved in any rule breaches, even a minor infraction, your application is suspended until those breaches are resolved.’ She was matter-of-fact again, on familiar turf. ‘Simply put: stay out of trouble if you want to get home, Mulgrew.’ She looked straight at me. ‘Can you do your own time, Mulgrew?’
I almost danced back to the Range, elated at the thought that I had made even the tiniest of progress. However, only a few hours after that lift, as seemed to be the way, Angel came to see me to discuss the unresolved gang question. Miss Matthews’ wasn’t the only prison department that had been working on my file, and whereas release and transfer dates could get moved further and further away, the ‘who you running with?’ issue wasn’t going to go away.
‘Stay out of trouble if you want to get home, Mulgrew.’ That was what Miss Matthews had said. That was all Mulgrew wanted to do. And it seemed pretty unlikely that he could manage it if he was forced to join a prison gang. I tried explaining that to Angel – but to him it was like a soldier saying he couldn’t go to war because he had to dig over his vegetable patch. My needs were negligible compared to the smooth running of the system.
‘It’s been decided you have to run with someone. We’ve been through this already.’
‘Who says?’ I asked, emboldened by my visit with Miss Matthews.
‘I do,’ said Angel sternly. ‘And don’t start manning up to me, Scotland,’ he continued, ‘or the Kings will have to kick your ass.’ There was an edge to what he said, as there always was in any conversation here. This constant masculine posturing was draining.
‘I’m just shittin’ with you, Angel,’ I said, glad my prison-speak lessons from New York were kicking in. ‘So it’s really just up to you?’ I added, hopeful that might lead us to resolving things.
‘No, jackass!’ responded Angel, laughing at my naivety. ‘All the shot-callers discuss it.’
‘What – all you guys sit down together and discuss this shit?’ Discussion, reasoned argument, was weird enough to envisage. Even more was the thought of these tattooed psychos – Latin, Native, Black and Nazi – all politely sitting round a table to work things out. Did they break for coffee? Was one gang in charge of the sandwiches?
‘We’ve been discussing you,’ Angel confirmed. ‘Especially since that Esquire article came out.’
‘Esquire article?’ I echoed.
‘You haven’t seen it? You made the front cover,’ Angel said, with a grin. ‘A picture of you and your two buddies from the bank. It says you were responsible for that whole property crash, because you invented some kind of scheme called securitising or some shit like that, and you used it to fuck Enron, and you wiped, like, twenty percent off the value of everybody’s home. That was some shit, that scheme of yours,’ he added, almost admiringly, but also a little accusingly.
‘Could I . . . could I see that article?’
‘Oh sure, I think Juarez has it right now. He’s the shot-caller for the Aztecas,’ Angel replied affably. ‘He likes the picture of you on the front cover.’
I gulped, wondering what Juarez might be doing with the front cover, but I was even more anxious when Angel leaned across and carried on, more quietly, ‘But he didn’t like what the article said at all. Juarez has a lot of real estate down the Baja, around the San Diego area all the way up to the Bay.’
‘He has?’
‘Yes. Juarez was really pissed when he first saw it. Wanted to come straight down and see you, but some of the other guys convinced him it was probably bullshit.’
‘Who the hell reads Esquire in here, anyway?’ I asked numbly.
‘Hey – the articles are bullshit, but you get a lot of high-class looking women in it,’ Angel said, almost defensively. ‘No titties or pussy so the cops let it in.’ We both paused for a second to consider this.
Sex and death are, they say, the great themes in all literature, and it wasn’t many seconds before my thoughts whirled away from whatever might be inside the pages of Esquire to whatever might be awaiting me. So Juarez had been persuaded not to believe everything the article said. But would everyone else take such an enlightened view? Was I a fool for thinking I could just plod along, with my library job and my card games and my friendships, under the radar of the big players? Did I need protection? Stay out of trouble, Mulgrew.
‘Anyway.’ Angel sighed. ‘A couple of important people want to talk to you . . .’ He tailed off, scrutinising me closely. His words caught me by surprise. I began to speak but the words caught in my throat, as I did a terrible job of repressing my fear.
‘You mean . . . you mean the shot-callers?’ I almost whined, distressed by how quickly my bravado could vanish.
‘Let’s just say a couple of people want to see you and leave it at that, Scotland, alright?’ said Angel again, all confidence and menace. ‘Someone will come for you in a couple of days, OK?’ he said as he rose to leave. ‘And don’t discuss this with anyone else,’ he continued as he drew a surreptitious glance towards Chief’s empty bunk.
‘OK,’ I responded, another lifeline gone and a wave of fear engulfing me as I avoided his eyes. He just turned and sauntered away.
17
CALLING THE SHOTS
I TRIED TO THINK OF A strategy for the meeting about my gang affiliation but I could come up with nothing other than to address the big players as succinctly as I could and try not to look like an idiot. I would explain my dilemma and see if they could sort
it out for me. It wasn’t a very sophisticated approach, but it was the best I could come up with.
The truth was, I was afraid of the shot-callers. I didn’t know all of them by sight; they were just a faceless body controlling the prison and my fate within it. Other than Finn and DumbDumb, I’d never come across a real-life criminal before I was indicted myself.
After I was indicted, however, it was a very different story. Once the affair became public, a stunning array of acquaintances came forward and revealed themselves to have skeletons in the cupboard, from making unsuccessful drug deals to living off immoral earnings. It just reminded me how arbitrary the whole process could be – some people got away with stuff, others didn’t.
Around this time I was very involved in building up a pub group in London through my consultancy company, Gambatte. Having had time to digest the indictment and talk to me about it, the other main partners, unfortunately named Crouch and Standing (Dan Crouch and brothers Giles and Gavin Standing) became great personal supporters, as well as friends and partners. They were the creative force behind our main bars, the Lock Tavern in Camden, and Brighton Rocks in Brighton. I dealt principally with the financial side of things and, mainly thanks to their innate sense of style and understanding of music, the business went from strength to strength.
One day, we had finished a meeting at our new venue, The Defectors Weld, in Shepherds Bush, when one of our lawyers, Ray, suggested we move on to a ‘more up-market’ place for another glass of wine or two. Gavin and Giles were busy and normally I would always make sure I picked up Calum from school in Brighton, but that night he was staying with my stepmother, Audrey.
I liked Ray a lot. He was a good old London boy, smart and always helpful and practical in dealing with the legal issues of the bars. He reminded me of Bob Hoskins – a little heavy set, with grey swept-back hair, overcoat sitting on his shoulders, and a cheeky grin. He was also another person I’d met after being indicted who didn’t seem to judge me on the media version of the case.
‘I know the perfect place for you, Mulgrew,’ he said mischievously. ‘Full of dodgy geezers – you’ll have a right laugh.’
I could do with a laugh, I thought, after the stress of the extradition hearings, the panic about being dragged off to prison in America, the dread of having to tell Calum. I was disciplined about not drinking too much, especially when I was in London, but I felt a few glasses of wine wouldn’t harm me.
In the taxi over towards Mayfair, Ray told me that we were going to a private club that was more akin to the types of places he liked and he wished our pub group would open in the future. From the two well-dressed, enormous doormen with earpieces and stony expressions at the front of this Mayfair townhouse, I could see immediately it was the type of place we would never open. Not our market, not our niche. The doormen looked Russian and the whole place reeked of grandeur and opulence. It was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon and I immediately felt scruffy in my faded jeans, white shirt and black jacket. I wished I’d shaved too.
‘I think I’m underdressed,’ I said awkwardly to Ray, resplendent in his suit and tie and unnecessary overcoat perched on his shoulders.
‘No, no,’ he looked at me, smiling. ‘You’re perfect. Let’s go upstairs. I want to see if any of the family are in. They’d love to meet you,’ he continued, obviously enjoying himself. This was the first time I’d heard anything about it being a family affair, although I guessed I wasn’t about to meet anyone’s granny.
We walked up two flights of stairs through beautifully decorated hallways with a few bars and a dining area either side of them. There were beautiful women everywhere, dressed as if they were going to a dinner party. The men looked well-heeled and a number of them gave me the once-over. I was feeling very uncomfortable but there was little I could do except follow Ray, who was nodding and smiling at every second person he saw. I’d never been to a place like this and I found it fascinating. I’d always imagined gentlemen’s clubs to be stuffy relics full of old Etonians in smoking jackets reading the Financial Times and bemoaning how the Empire had gone to the dogs, but this place was different. It had an edge to it.
Ray took me into a smoking room, where a waiter served me with a large cigar and a decent Burgundy. I’m not big into cigars, I would maybe smoke one every couple of years, but I welcomed the distraction; Ray was making me nervy. He always had great energy and a great sense of fun – just the kind of guy that could get me into trouble in an instant. He left me a couple of times to talk to people at the extremities of the room and I could see them looking over at me. I heard him say, ‘NatWest Three’ and ‘Cayman Islands’, which didn’t help my increasing discomfort. Eventually he rejoined me.
‘Some of the boys want to meet you,’ he said, beaming his mischievous smile at me again.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,’ I said, leaning forward, trying to look composed, and wishing he’d never forced the comedy cigar on me.
‘Nonsense,’ said Ray, slapping my thigh as he shouted out, ‘Harry’ to the man he had just spoken to in the corner. ‘You’ll love these guys and they’re desperate to meet you!’ He waved them over.
‘All right, Gal? Pleasure to meet you, my son. My name’s Harry.’ Stocky and well built, Harry clearly had some influence here, as the merest flick of his hand brought a waiter scurrying back a few seconds later with a whisky on the rocks. ‘Heard you’ve been in a bit of bovver, my son,’ Harry observed, pulling up a seat directly opposite me and giving me a friendly smile.
We were immediately joined by four others and Ray introduced them all far too quickly for me to remember their names. They positioned their seats in a circle around our small table, and even though there was a round table there, I felt like I was in the middle. They all seemed to know who I was. When I spoke, they sat and listened as if I was the oracle, assessing me. What could they possibly want from me? Perhaps sensing my unease, Harry turned to Ray and began a side conversation. Soon the wine flowed as the conversation became more easy. The guy to the left of me (Mike, I think) talked mainly to me as the others argued over who was going to win that night’s Champions League semi-final between Chelsea and Liverpool. Mike had less of a ‘threat’ about him, and his face and hands carried none of the telltale signs of a life of violence.
Suddenly the seating arrangements didn’t seem so random. The wine had helped a bit and I was doing my best to relax and hoped I was masking how uncomfortable I felt. Ray had wandered off for a while and, as if on cue, Mike changed the subject abruptly.
‘How much is it you nicked then?’ he asked quietly.
‘I didn’t nick it,’ I responded just as quietly, putting down my glass. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought as I shifted uneasily in my chair. I could sense that Harry was looking intently at me and a quick glance confirmed as much. He smiled at me and in that smile I detected genuine warmth. ‘God,’ I thought. ‘They think I’m one of them.’
Mike pressed on. ‘Yes, yes, of course. You never did it,’ he said, smiling.
‘No, no,’ I said more forcibly and looking straight at him. ‘I didn’t actually do it.’
It always annoyed the shit out of me when someone patronised me either in saying, ‘Of course you didn’t,’ or ‘Oh, everyone says they’re innocent.’ How are you supposed to respond to that?
Mike saw how fervent I was but I am sure he’d seen that before. Everyone says they’re innocent, right? I immediately regretted my emotion. These were not people to toy with. Again, I thought about how to make an exit. It seemed tricky.
‘Sorry, Gal. No offence, mate. It’s just I saw the indictment and the stuff in the paper . . . well.’
‘I know, I know, Mike. No offence taken. The Americans have done a number on us, that’s all. I’m sure it’s not the first time.’
‘Yes, you’re right there. But normally that’s because they want something else. What else could they want from you?’
He said this with a certain assuredness that sugg
ested some experience. He was looking intently at me. Although the place had filled up and there was plenty of noise and talk around us, I sensed some of the others were listening in, but I didn’t want to look. I considered his question. Could that be it? Was that why the Americans were after us? Could they genuinely think that we held the key to unlocking some of Enron’s secrets, that we knew where some of the bodies were buried? Perhaps I was giving the Department of Justice way too much credit. Could they really be that stupid? The thought was an uncomfortable one. I changed tack and pace with Mike. I wanted to see what these guys wanted.
‘I’m no technician, Mike. I can understand the basic mechanics of a structure, but don’t ask me the details. I can sell the benefits, but ask me a day or two later and I’ll be lucky to remember what it was called. My mind doesn’t work that way,’ I said much more assertively.
‘Yes, but your mate Bermingham does,’ he responded. It was a revealing response, as if acknowledging the sparring was over.
‘But I doubt Bermo has much insight into what went on in Enron itself.’
‘But he could deconstruct a lot of their deals . . .’ He had done his research. Who had he been speaking to? I looked at him closely again.
‘Possibly.’ I hesitated, thinking it through. ‘But I can’t believe that they would go to all that trouble just to get us there. After all, they only needed to ask.’
‘What do you mean?’ he responded, seemingly confused for the first time.
